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Bob

I do not think there is a single culture in our global society that does not pride in the freshness of its local ingredients composing its cuisine. It would come as a shocker if one day I did hear about a place that defended the stale qualities of its products: “Open since 1946, our restaurant’s fruits and vegetables are kept in a cellar for 5 years before they are used in our world-renowned, un-fresh salads! Come and taste them with your whole family!” Then there are the cheese, preserves, and other fermented products that are highly valued by its taste, odor, and texture. At one end of the spectrum, though, we have the concept of freshness as something that has just been made or obtained, or that which is not preserved by freezing, canning, drying, etc.

Japan, for instance, is a culture that places a particular emphasis on this subject. I never thought of it in such absolute terms until the time I was in Tokyo one summer. On one occasion, we were invited to dine at a traditional restaurant specialized in sushi in all its possible forms. As we walked in, we saw several aquarium-like fish tanks decorating the entrance where the images of our aquatic friends were magnified as we observed them through the thick, clear glass, swimming, oblivious to our presence. As we all took our shoes off at the entrance of the restaurant, we were led through a hallway with dark wooden floors. Instead of the conventional Western doors, the different dining rooms were divided by sliding doors that only made a light, swishy sound every time someone opened or closed it. The floors were covered with tatami, woven straw mats of equal dimensions neatly laid out. In the middle of our room, several low tables were put together to create a great dining table of approximately 3×3 meters. We sat on the floor around the table, on top of thin cushions with silk covers that came in different colors and motifs.

Among the many plates that our hosts ordered for us, there was one that particularly caught our attention. Its English translation would be something like, “Preparation of an Alive Red Bream.” The waitress, dressed in her kimono, brought a lidded oval glass container with a red bream laying sideways in it. It was flapping its tale, desperately trying to find a more comfortable position. I decided to call it “Bob.” The waitress asked our hosts for their approval of Bob’s appearance and immediately took it away in the same container. I kind of knew where it was taken to, but I did not want to stop to think about the details. The spectacle began about half an hour later when it was brought back onto our table. It was both a morbid and a beautiful sight: a red bream, with its head and tail kept intact, connected by its backbone; except that its ventral part was all cleaned out, its pink meat sliced into thin layers and elegantly laid. Aesthetically, it was sublime. Bob’s head was slightly turned upwards, as if giving it a sense of motion. It was in a posture as if it were caught in video, jumping out of the water, and someone had pressed the pause button to freeze the image. I was speechless.

Suddenly, someone grabbed a sake decanter and poured a stream of rice wine into Bob’s mouth. As it was expected, the liquid came straight out of its throat area, but Bob wanted to keep our attention on him. It began to move its mouth and gills, gasping for air. The room suddenly went quiet, like the calm before the storm. Then everyone went crazy laughing, screaming, and playing with Bob’s mouth by pouring in it some more sake. Even though Bob’s reaction is scientifically explained as a mere reflex, the truth is that Bob was not officially “dead” at the time of its preparation; it was only drunk, and we were now about to eat him up in its sleep. In honor of Bob’s last gimmick, I took the chopsticks in my hand, quickly grabbed a slice of meat thinking that Bob could wake up at any time. None of us stopped eating until we had not finished with Bob’s existence. I remember thinking how delicious its meat was. It was cooler than room temperature and the soy sauce brought about its distinctive bream taste, elevating everyone’s gastronomic experience to a higher level. Once its meat was gone, Bob’s presence was easily ignored; there were new plates on the table that kept people busy. Bob’s image had gotten fixed in my mind, though. I still remember that night very vividly. As we were walking out of the restaurant, I noticed how one of the tanks seemed emptier, and I knew that it was no coincidence.